


(I'd Be) The Last Shred of Truth

by sirenseven



Series: SladeRobin Week 2020 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, M/M, Misunderstandings, bad Slade Wilson, revoked consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Jason always knew Dick would flip out if he discovered Jason has been sleeping with his nemesis. He's not wrong, but he's still misjudged things completely.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: SladeRobin Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985105
Comments: 30
Kudos: 138
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	(I'd Be) The Last Shred of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I planned these two chapters to be day 6 and 7 and SladeRobin week. Obviously that, uh, hasn’t happened, but I wanted to still get this first part riiight under the wire. No idea yet when the second part is coming, but it will appear some day!

The first time they worked together was purely professional—and entirely petty. Identity still unknown and underground cred rising, Jason could have hired any mercenary. But he’d remembered ol’ Dickiebird grousing about Deathstroke a time or ten after the man caused trouble with the Titans, and he hadn’t been able to resist.

Cue one orange and navy mercenary, perfectly designed to annoy his so-called family as much as possible.

Wilson did a good job, stayed professional, took his money, and left. Even Jason could admit he’d done was impressive work. The next time he’d needed a particularly competent hireling—and god knew the fucking Gotham idiots wouldn’t suffice—it had been a no-brainer to hire the mercenary again.

By then, months later, news of Jason’s resurrection had spread. His family was taking the whole thing personally already, so Jason didn’t even need Deathstroke to infuriate them. Didn’t mean he couldn’t still find a way to pile on. Jason may not have started with ulterior motives this time, but...

“You realize this is gonna piss your brother off,” Wilson said, stopping Jason only after jackets and belts were already gone, and holding him against the wall.

“Golly, I hadn’t thought of that,” Jason drawled. If he seriously cared, Wilson would’ve done this before they started stripping at all. Jason pushed against his grip, craning forward to latch onto the man’s neck. “Guess we ought’a stop, huh?”

Wilson, annoyingly, gave no reaction to the air and vibration against his throat, but he did release Jason’s shoulders. “S’long as we’re on the same page.”

Jason rocked against his thigh appreciatively, grabbing a handful of white hair to tug their faces back together. Rough, dirty, and completely unromantic, exactly how he wanted it. After a second, he belatedly remembered what he should have said to begin with:

“And he’s not my brother.” Jason was loudly—and violently—denouncing both Batman and Bruce, and that meant Dick was dead to him too.

Whatever. He may not have actually _done_ anything to Jason, but it’s not like he’d killed the Joker either, put up a fight against the new kid replacing him, done fuck all to showed he cared in the slightest about Jason’s death, so fuck him.

Wilson chuckled, tugging Jason’s shirt up brusquely. Jason flung it away as soon as they’d yanked it off together.

“Whatever you say, kid.” He shoved his hand down Jason’s pants.

A month after that, Jason was infuriating Dick while dressed up in a Nightwing suit of his own, but couldn’t quite find a time to drop his other bombshell. Well, he _could_ , but not without Dick thinking he was bringing it up—or, worse, had only done it in the first place—to personally annoy him. Which he _had_ , but he couldn’t let Dick _know_ that.

The third time Jason hired Slade went much the same as the second, blazing with the heat of his own overblown anger while Dick filled the shoes of a mysteriously absent Bruce. By the fourth time, the reassembled bat-clan and Dick in particular had started to tentatively reach out, now that Jason’s head was clearer and his murders less gratuitous. Jason still hired the mercenary, and they still fucked, but his perverse delight was a little dimmed. He kept the fire burning with the reminder that no one told him what to do, and the idea that he would still have a foolproof way to infuriate Bruce and Dickie if and when they overstepped and pissed him off.

And, yeah, maybe he still didn’t find a chance to use it, but that was just because there hadn’t been a way to naturally let it slip. And then because he was waiting for the perfect moment. And then, to his chagrin, because somehow Jason had stopped wanting to blow everything in his life up.

Bruce was still gallivanting around the world on his ridiculous Batman Inc idea, which suited Jason just fine. His feelings on the man were mixed, but the less interaction the better. That left Dick continuing to play Gotham’s Bat. Without the green haze fogging his mind, Jason could privately admit that Dick was a pretty good brother—drove him fucking crazy, of course, but in the way brothers were supposed to. Though it was annoying as all hell to realize...Jason kind of liked him and his tentative olive branches, then shared missions, and eventually the occasional hang out without a mask in sight.

So he’s aware of the irony that it’s only the fifth time he hires Slade that the bomb gets dropped.

Jason doesn’t have much use for mercenaries anymore. His path isn’t as straight and narrow as his family might like, but it has strayed much further into the light. The fifth time, hiring Slade is a matter of perfect circumstance: the very mob boss Jason was looking to overturn had hired Deathstroke himself, and a hefty chunk of cash alongside a preexisting relationship got Slade to flip.

Preexisting professional relationship, that is. Jason has no illusions that a few carefree fucks make them particularly close—hell, he’s sincerely glad they aren’t. He has no inclination to pretend to care about Slade beyond this.

No, most likely Deathstroke can just feel the changing winds. He surely knows Marlowe’s time is close to its end and calculated the Red Hood’s good word will be more valuable for his all-important rep than a soon-to-be-deposed mobster.

Now that Jason has given a tentative agreement to not kill in Gotham, having a man on the inside certainly makes the take-down easier. With Deathstroke’s information, he’d gotten half the lieutenants arrested and most of Marlowe’s drug trade stalled out. With Deathstroke’s active assistance, he clears out the warehouse used for arms trafficking, leaving the guards inside knocked out and the guards outside strung up.

It’s all going swell until the younger of the Batmen appears out of nowhere.

Jason, busy ensuring the information inside the warehouse’s little office is suitably damning, doesn’t realize until he hears Slade groan from the central area, “Ah, Christ.” Followed by a far more urgent, “Jesus! I’m on your side this time, Grayson.”

That gets Jason moving, jerking away from the desk with a call of, “Please don’t beat up my employee.”

When he reaches the central space of the warehouse, Deathstroke is easily spotted near a side wall. Batman stands ten feet away, side to Jason, with a batarang in hand but motion stalled. Nice to know Jason’s word still counts for something.

Dick turns his head enough to see Jason without removing Deathstroke from his line of sight. He’s doing the Bat act still, rest of his body remaining motionless and stoic. Jason isn’t sure if the performance annoys him because of how little it reveals or because it’s too reminiscent of Bruce. Either way, he refuses show his wariness.

“I mean, I’m sure he deserves it,” Jason says, “but I don’t want him asking for a bonus or some shit.”

“I did have a no capes condition,” Slade drawls from the side.

“Explain,” Dick says, higher than Bruce’s but still gravelly in his Batman voice.

Jason huffs, taking casual steps forward just to show off how not a big deal this is—and also to get closer in case it becomes one. What’s the chance Dick will hear the answer, agree it’s all swell, and leave without further conflict? Pretty slim, huh. “Nothing wild. Paid him to flip on Marlowe and to give me a hand mopping up his operation.”

The muscle of Dick’s jaw works. Maybe upset Jason didn’t call in one of the cavalry from the family instead, or maybe just pissed it’s Slade. Old rivalries run deep, he supposes. Jason drops those odds of him leaving it alone another notch.

“Always happy to take a job with my favorite client,” Slade chimes in, lingering a little too long over the _favorite_. “Especially one with all this hands-on fun.”

His one eye flicks to Jason behind the mask’s cut-out—and Jason is going to kill him, actually. Here he is, trying to spare the asshole from getting brought in by Batman (yes, for the sake of his own wallet and reputation, but still to Slade’s benefit), and Slade has to go run his mouth for no reason. Jason hadn’t even ranked that revelation particularly high on his list of worries, figuring he just wouldn’t bring it up—should’ve asked himself the chances that _Slade_ wouldn’t bring it up.

He’s doing this on purpose, the bastard; probably clocked Jason’s tension minute one and decided to pluck at it. All Jason can do is fervently hope Dick is thinking “fun” just refers the incapacitated goons outside, and not picking up on the innuendo.

Slade shifts to prop a careless elbow up on the stack of crates beside him, damn calm for a man facing the Bat, even one very assured in his own combat prowess. He may be on their side this time, but Deathstroke is still a ruthless mercenary and killer. Dick could easily decide to gun for the arrest right now; he’s still got that batarang in his palm, even if he hasn’t raised it. Slade is so calm he’s either certain Dick won’t or certain he’ll win—or maybe expecting Jason to help. Fuck, Dick probably is too.

Not friggin’ ideal. Jason would love to come out of this with all his bridges unburnt, and when _he’s_ the closest thing they have to a mediator, you know the situation’s fucked.

“You’re working with him,” Dick says flatly.

Cool, great. Jason _hates_ the stupid emotionless voice. He bristles at the potential criticism, but he’s not even sure that’s what Dick meant. “So?”

“Can’t help your brother and I work so well together,” Slade adds.

Jason shoots him a glare: _Not helping_. All he gets back is a crinkle of the mask he’s pretty sure means Slade’s grinning under it.

“We’re wrapped up here anyway,” Jason says, before, god forbid, Slade can keep talking.

It’s not entirely true. He’s satisfied that the office’s information is incriminating, but he _was_ planning on checking out the arms running through here and maybe skimming some of the best off the top. Obviously not going to happen with Dick around, though.

That’s alright. Close off the mission, hope Dick doesn’t try to arrest his fuck buddy, and get out of here with his secrets intact.

“Well, wrapped up with the _job_ ,” Slade says, smug tone throwing a match right onto Jason’s plan. Before Jason can come up with a reason to interrupt, he continues to Dick, “Sure your brother and I will find another way to have _fun_ tonight.”

Jason doesn’t have time to get pissed over the innuendo or picture punching his smug face or wonder how the hell he’s going to roll this one back. Slade is standing there, half leaned on the crates, casual as anything—and then in a blink he’s being crushed into the wall, one black gauntlet gripping his chest armor and the other pressing at the base of his throat.

Jason jerks forward. He didn’t even see Dick _move_.

“Problem, Grayson?” Slade asks, unblinking. Whatever tricks Dick can pull out in a fight, Slade should easily have him beat on pure strength. He’s _letting_ this happen, performatively looking between the pair of them. “Oh, my mistake, kid. Figured you’d already _know_. But I guess you Bats do love your secrets.”

Dick’s hands tighten, just short of cutting off Slade’s air. Leather gloves and Slade’s scaled body armor creak with the strain.

“Alright, can we chill here?” Jason says, worry coming out as annoyance. Dick holds tense, not so much as a glance at Jason to break his laser focus on holding Slade.

Slade snorts, tilting his head back like the hand on his neck doesn’t bother him in the slightest, and leering at Dick. “He’s a lot friendlier that you, you know.”

The wall clangs loudly as Dick slams him again. He hisses something too low for Jason to hear across the space.

Slade meets Dick’s fury with a dare in his eye. His murmured reply is just loud enough to pick up: “What are you gonna do about it, hero?”

Tension screams in every line of Dick’s body, even beneath the bulky suit and cape. Jason darts forward into arm’s reach, suddenly a little less concerned about Dick discovering their sexual relationship—ship has fucking sailed on that—and a lot more concerned Dick is going to start breaking Slade’s bones.

“Jesus, can you not?” Jason says. Maybe not the best way to talk down a furious vigilante, but, look, he’s never been good a deescalation. “I know you hate him, but you’re really racking up my bill right now.”

Dick’s gaze finally jerks over to him, though his grip doesn’t loosen. “You’re—” he starts, incredulous, before cutting himself off. His face—at least, the half of it Jason can see—works for a moment, and then resolves itself into something unreadable.

“I think the protective big brother act is kinda cute,” says Slade.

“Not helping,” Jason snaps.

Dick’s voice has gone as flat as his face when he says, “You hired him.”

Jason quirks an eyebrow, aware it’s invisible behind the helmet. “Yeah?” He’s pretty sure they established that. If Dick is going to lecture him about this...

 _Protective big brother act_ —oh, Jesus, is that really what this is? Jason didn’t realize he had reached the point of getting his _honor_ defended.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not a kid and I can make my own decisions, Dickhead.” His relief that Dick isn’t mad is balanced out by his annoyance that Dick seems to think he has a fucking say in this. “I’m not getting— _suckered_ into anything. You think I’m completely stupid?”

“There you go,” says Slade, voice lowering as he looks to Dick. “There’s no need to make up ridiculous stories, kid, just ‘cause he’s not like you.”

Dick straightens and, to Jason’s surprise, stiffly releases Slade. He takes a step back, unusually clunky in his motions. Embarrassed, probably, after _totally overreacting_ to the whole situation.

Jason rolls his eyes at the dramatics—and definitely is not also a little bit touched Dick wanted to protect him.

“Well,” Jason says, loping back. Cool, situation resolved; time to bolt before the dust settles. If Slade is dumb enough to provoke Dick again, that’s his own damn fault. It seems like Jason isn’t getting ejected from Team Bat today, and he doesn’t want to stick around to fuck that up or to let Dick have time to remember it takes two to tango and turn some anger on _him_. “Why don’t you handle the call to the cops, since you’re so much better with ‘em, and I’ll just...”

He jerks a thumb towards the window he crashed in through. Dick holds in place, not even reacting, but Slade slips away on his other side and backs up towards the open front doors.

“I’ll expect to see the rest of my payment shortly,” he calls.

Jason grunts in response, just as Slade vanishes out the doors.

Dick remains unmoving, not even an attempt to stop him. Not even a word to Jason which, like so much he does, is both a relief and an annoyance. The cape shrouds around him, but, in the center of a warehouse instead of cloaking shadows, it just looks out of place. Jason furrows his eyebrows at the disconcerting stillness.

He’s sure as hell not sticking around for the next interrogation though. He vaults out the window.

Somehow, he expects that will be the end of it. He can’t imagine Dick is particularly happy with him, but it seems Jason’s little bombshell didn’t explode as he’d feared—or, once, hoped. A few fucks haven’t blown up his life, and he finds himself right back...Well.

“Shouldn’t have even let you in,” Jason grouses, as Slade attacks his shirt.

“Yeah?” Slade’s laugh huffs against his neck. “You got a lot of hot dates waiting on you?”

He doesn’t. He’s sure he _could_ ; plenty of people looking to hook up in Gotham. But, fuck, it’s just so much easier with someone who knows who he is in both sides of his life—and pretty much everyone else that describes either is a family member or hates him. Not to mention Slade also knows what he _likes_ , after a few goes at this.

“You’re not that hot,” is all Jason says.

They stumble back in the vague direction of the bedroom, not that they often make it that far, until Slade shoves him face-first into the wall just outside.

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad I let the secret slip,” Slade says, voice humming against Jason’s neck as he sucks his way down the side. It involves a lot more teeth than necessary, exactly how Jason prefers it.

“Don’t pretend it was an accident,” Jason grouses back, even as he tips his head for easier access.

“Did you a favor,” Slade says, reaching around for Jason’s belt. Jason helps him with the buckle, before Slade is yanking it off and out of his hands. “Now you can carry on without all the fucking worry over being found out.”

“Yeah, real fucking favor provoking him with it like that.”

Slade’s hands pause over his hips, digging tight into the the muscle but refusing to move further in. “Oh, I see what this is.”

Jason, who thought he was about to finally get his dick touched, grunts in annoyance and pointedly grinds back into Slade. “What does that mean?”

“You’re _jealous_.”

The words come right beside his ear, and Jason nearly concusses the pair of them whipping his head around. “ _What_?”

Slade smirks knowingly, which just pisses him off more because he’s genuinely incredulous. The thought never even fucking entered his mind. Of course, jealousy over Dick was the background noise of his teenage years, but it never entered into _this_. Slade must think he’s a real fucking prize.

“It’s alright.” Slade takes advantage of his twist to capture an open mouth kiss that ends with Jason’s bottom lip between his teeth. “I think he was jealous too.”

Jason gives a genuine snort this time, dropping his face back against the wall. “Well at least we know you don’t suffer from insecurity.”

“What, you don’t think I’m good enough to get fought over?” Slade presses fully against his back, and Jason is glad he never had to voice just how much he likes the reminder of Slade’s height advantage, the power invoked by Slade’s shirt scraping against his bare torso. Slade’s style is less to ask and more to _take_ , and Jason gets to push him in the right direction without needing to fucking talk about it. “Jeez, if these are the compliments I get from you, maybe I _should_ try Grayson out.”

He’s so obviously doing it to get a rise, but Jason scowls nonetheless. “Alright, I’m still right fucking here, asshole.”

Slade chuckles, grinding into his back so Jason can feel the hard length against his ass. “You sure are.” Slade unclasps Jason’s pants and pushes them down his thighs. “I wouldn’t worry. In case you haven’t noticed, Grayson’s a little to straight-laced for my taste.”

“So are we gonna have sex, or are we gonna talk about my brother?” Jason grumbles, kicking off his pants.

Slade laughs again, and spins him around to press his back into the wall just as hard. “Well we _could_ do both, but if you insist.” Jason scowls to make it clear he does. “Actually, thought maybe we could try something new.”

“Sounds good,” Jason says. Last time “something new” was choking him out, and Jason has never come so hard in his life. He palms over his own groin, since apparently no one else is going to, before Slade snatches his wrist and pins it to the wall.

“You don’t even want to talk about what it is?” he asks.

Talk?

“Fuck no,” says Jason.

Dick is waiting for Jason on his roof the next night.

Well, not _his_ roof. He doesn’t own the place, or even live there. It’s the roof with his favorite grotesque, still standing despite the crumbling infrastructure that surrounds it. That Nightwing is sitting on the statue leaves no mistaking his intentions. That Nightwing is out at _all_ , when as far as Jason was aware Dick has been Batman since Bruce vanished and all the way through his return, just sets him on edge.

Call him a coward, but Jason absolutely considers bolting the second he spots Dick. Unfortunately, he’s already gotten close enough that Dick would surely notice. He’d only delay what’s coming and compound his embarrassment.

“Hey,” Dick says when he approaches, without looking away from the scene below. His feet dangle over a ten-story drop.

Jason reluctantly ambles up beside him, propping his fists on the parapet. At least Dick isn’t using the Batman voice in this guise. Even with the same man in both costumes, Nightwing comes off a lot more friendly—and a lot easier to read. Jason reluctantly removes his helmet and sets it on the wall, figuring he at least owes that much.

Traffic rumbles by below. Dick tenses and releases his jaw, staring down at it, and staying silent for so long that Jason finally snaps out, “Well?”

Dick jerks up, stiff. “Slade,” he starts, and then nothing else.

“Yeah? What about him?” Like Jason doesn’t know. He’ll be damned if he makes the reaming out easier.

“I’m...” Dick worries at his lip. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t like you working with him.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Jason mutters, snatching his helmet off the parapet and backing away. He takes back his gestures of good faith; he’s not doing this.

Dick winces, running a hand through his hair. “No, that’s not what I—”

“It’s my life,” Jason snaps. “You don’t get a say in who I work with. Or who I fuck, for that matter!”

Dick looks momentarily gobsmacked, lips working silently. He’s Dick, so Jason expects him to roll it back, apologize, try to reach out as always. Maybe he shouldn’t be so optimistic. “So you have...”

“Fucked him?”

Dick flinches.

Jason laughs humorlessly. Fucking typical. He should never have convinced himself the intervention wasn’t coming. He thought at the very least Dick wouldn’t act like some blushing Victorian, as if the very idea is just too unseemly to speak out loud. 

“Are you...okay?” Dick says, worry writ in every line of his body. “I mean, has he ever...?”

Jason scoffs. Of course Dick would have to make up some fucking story where Jason has been tricked or forced into it. That’s all they want from him, right? The innocent fucking teenager they lost, not the blood-stained man they got back. His hand clenches tight around the lip of his helmet. _He’s_ been willing to compromise, _he’s_ made good on his promise not to kill, but if everyone else refuses to let go of some bullshit white-washed version of his history... “Are you that bothered I’d sleep with a mercenary?”

“I just thought you of all people—” Dick audibly snaps his mouth shut, before trying again in a tighter voice. “I didn’t think you’d do that with _him_.”

“Because you know me so well,” Jason seethes. “Are you jealous? Is that really what this is?”

Dick’s mouth drops open, looking like Jason just punched him. “What?”

Jason doesn’t know where this is coming from, just that everything he feels always seems to claw its way out as anger, and some thread of Slade’s words remain in his head, and he can never seem to stop when he’s on a roll. “I mean, _he_ certainly thought so. Seemed kind of silly at first, but, fuck, I guess he probably does know you better than me.”

Dick presses his lips together so tight they turn noticeably white even in the late night city lighting. He’s trembling so much that for a moment Jason swears he’s about to lunge forward and take a swing.

“Fine,” Dick says. “You’re right; it’s your life. Do what you want.”

He drops off the gargoyle before Jason can respond.

He watches the flash of blue plummet, until Dick shoots out his grapple line, a second after any reasonable person would. The shrinking figure of Nightwing swings to the far side of the intersection and doesn’t stop, vaulting onto the next roof and sprinting across. As Jason watches him go, he can’t decide if he’s viciously pleased, validated in his fury—or somehow missing the point completely.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me [on tumblr](https://writerseven.tumblr.com/)


End file.
